Point to Her
by Zerabell Blackborn
Summary: There was a dull throbbing in her ankle as she landed wrong. One-Shot . Hermione-centric.


A/N: Created to be back-story of a incredibly lofty (and hole-y) plot empowering Hermione during the war that goes something like this '_On the eve of a decisive victory an unexpected counter attack lands Hermione on a Ministry Approved list of Dangerous and Suspicious Characters. She must mourn the dead, come to terms with her newly made legal status, evade the increasingly corrupt wizarding government, and plan the end of a war as the Order soldier she was trained to be. Loyalties are tested, impossible friendships are forged, and undiscovered desires must be controlled. Alternate Universe.' _It has since gone the way of the Dodo, unless you want to pick it up or perhaps Co-Author…

Beta'd: None, please feel free to correct me.

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**Hermione: One**

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There was a dull throbbing in her ankle as she landed wrong. Her hand twitched in emptiness and she quickly looked around the isolated field for her wand. There was movement and a shadow of a figure looming over her; a wooden tip pressing against her neck, slowly trailing down her collarbone to drum a tune she couldn't hear.

She reached out blindly and struggled against the pain, the frustration. She _couldn't_ lose. There was nothing but grass and dirt beneath her outstretched hand as tears pricked her eyes. She was wounded, bleeding, bruised and sore. She was tired, having snuck past her guard dogs in the night to find herself fighting endlessly as the sun began to lighten the sky. And she was, for all intent and purposes, alone with no help on the horizon. But most of all?

_Tap, tap._

"With everything you've been reading," _taptap, tap,_ "you've come across nothing to get you out of this?"

She was filled with anger.

She was reaching still, with furrowed brow, but no longer with her hand. An idea, a curious fragment of an essay found in a dusty tome, began to form. Impossibly, deceptively simple. Accidental magic; she had done it before. Every wizard or witch had at some point in their youth. _Innate capability_, keywords and jumbled sentences on yellow parchment read; _generation after generation ruled by cultural demands… materials- wood, hair, feathers, powered and grinded elemental crystals or stones- became a matter of prestige and pride… a focus object that at once amplified, controlled, and restricted magical output_. Numbers of probability and statistics ran unbidden; percentages of adults who's magics grew exponentially resulting in a need for a new wand, a handful who needed no foci. So she reached, and focused, and pushed back because she needed to end this and come out the victor. She reached because in this situation she could assume her wand in her enemy's hand or broken and lost in spite.

"Now, now." The shadow started, amusement evident in it's sound. But she was already turning, putting to use all the theoretical and tactical manuals spilling off a shelf in the library, and catching her foe in a rare moment of monologing.

Self defense- martial in origin, wizarding by necessity- had her springing from the ground, ducking aside his outstretched wand hand and combining a punch to his unprotected torso with a mental shout of _Impedimenta_. Her assailant flew backwards, more from momentum than the familiar lighting-like buzz of magic, still… She had felt in her wrists, could still feel it in her fingertips.

Accidental magic, not quite so accidental.

Black hair splayed on the wind as his bulky frame landed several feet away. His eyes had widened and glasses had become askew. There was a moment of stunted silence before his laughter filled the clearing.

She didn't even have the energy to mind so much when his _Petrificus Totalus_ hit as he jumped from the ground with a speed she was practicing. Watching the ever lighter sky from her position on the ground she ruefully thought that calling her wand and binding her friend with rope would have been the perfect ending to their late evening/early morning sparring session marathon. Oh well. There was always tomorrow night.

Harry: eight.

Hermione: one, for surely her achievement counted as a win even if she lost the duel.

_-end._


End file.
